Return

spending a day in the park, going to school, enjoying my balcony, and having a (momentary) lapse of limerence

Behind me, I could hear the efforts of legitimate cyclists and bumbling tourists alike sharing the bike lanes; alongside them, the long paseo was host to the usual bustle of a summer evening: stylishly dressed women talked quickly into their phones, jocular friend groups erupted in sudden, synchronous bouts of laughter, and small children screamed and giggled with their tiny hands pressed firmly into their parent’s. In my periphery I could see the lazy, thoughtless touches between couples as they conversed on various benches, and directly in front of me was a man in a patch of sunlight alternating between tanning and practicing his handstands. Every now and then, a dog would be seen sprinting after a ball or mischievously eluding its owner, whose pleas and entreaties would be met with a bark and sly shift of the head.

I was laying with my headphones in, looking up at the sunlight bouncing off the tree’s leaves as it trickled its way down. Bothersome flies were peskily landing on my arms and face and toes before coyly placing themselves out of the reach of my defensive swat. My book was lying nearby, a pink pen nestled in its inner spine to keep my place; my shoes were kicked off haphazardly in the grass beyond the border of my blanket. Everywhere was enshrouded with the faintest hue of green as the sparkling verdure of the trees and bushes was reflected off a tiny nearby stream onto cream-colored pillars and sunglasses and phone cameras. 

I had returned to el río¹ Turía, and it was returning to me. 

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Unfortunately, there was nothing to be done as the white sock floated down to the dogshit-covered floor of my downstairs neighbors’ courtyard. In the face of the sun’s glare, the sock’s brilliant white shone like a spotlight against the dirty red tile, taunting me as I chose to ignore the problem and continued hanging the rest of my laundry on the clothesline. When I finished I took a seat and lit the joint I’d been saving all day. 

I looked around at what could, when I’m feeling generous, be described as my view, but what is in reality a privileged outlook onto a quilt of different courtyards, all surrounded by the towering white walls of the apartment buildings to which they belong. Various lives are hinted at through the squares of my neighbors’ windows, stoking my voyeuristic tendencies and inspiring imaginative scenarios of what my neighbors’ lives are like. But sometimes this makes me lonely and I wonder if the other women drying their laundry ever feel the quasi-sororal liminality inherent to clotheslines, or if the friends gathering outside to drink a beer also share the highlights of their day while knowing they’re living through another. And, because I can’t help it, I wonder if any of my neighbors ever deign to ponder the American girl who comes outside to gyrate her shoulders to pop music or to hang her yoga mat in the sun.  

From the window directly to the right of me, I could hear my roommate belting out some Italian ballad. She’s a law student from Rome who so passionately condemns the state the rental agency left our kitchen in that I know there is no cause of hers I will not stand behind. At times I can hear our other roommate, a fellow American studying music, rehearsing in his room down the absurdly long hallway or playing video games in the living room. Sometimes I’ll ask if they want to hang out and smoke, but generally we only speak to each other when we all happen to emerge from our respective rooms at the same time to go to the kitchen, where we’ll inquire about each other’s days and jokingly lament how odd things can be here. 

When I’ve tired of smoking on the balcony, I enter my room and lay on the bed singing along to whatever is playing on my phone. I stare at the ceiling and think about how I am living a life in a place far away from where I grew up and I have taken opportunities I never knew were possible and how even now there are forces in motion to carry me to the next chapter of my life, and how lucky I am to be able to have a hazy mind and trust that everything will work itself out.

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I ring the bell and study my timetable while I wait to be buzzed into the school. I also periodically wipe my face, hoping to cleanse myself of the sweat I’ve accrued from having to speed-walk to work. Languishing in bed, stopping to pet the dogs on their morning walks, and marveling at the changing verdant landscape of the park are all great conductors of tardiness–– or are great motivators to train as the Olympic speed walkers do. It doesn’t matter, because whatever my reason for being late, however I rationalize it, I never have any idea how to respond to the kids when they invariably laugh and point at my red complexion. 

Once I’m allowed to enter, I go into one of two buildings, and I climb the stairs until I reach the class I should be in. Being late, I become an excuse for the kids to break the quiet stillness I know my fellow teacher has taken pains for them to achieve; but there’s nothing to do when a swarm of 20 children get up in sync and convert themselves into a stampeding choir of “Good mornings!” in little Spanish accents, running to give me a hug. The rest of the class is spent trying to quiet the children so they pay attention to the lesson. If I mention a fact about California, or allude to my having a boyfriend, they might lull in their conversations for a brief moment, and I feel the illusion of success creep in before they collapse back into their speaking frenzy. Shrieking laughter, improvised songs, and imitations of fútbol players provide the backdrop to the shaky smile I share with my fellow teacher, an acknowledgement of how we’ve failed and yet again our lives have been brought to a point in which children have the upper hand.  

Luckily, I usually have a break of at least one hour, which I spend working on my laptop in the nearby río. As I make my way out, kids jump out to show me a new art piece they’ve just completed or to ask if I like their new sweater that says “Surf’s Up! Huntington Beach, CA.” Sometimes I stop to speak to another teacher, exchanging pleasantries in a Spanish that I whisper so as not to rouse the suspicion of the children who want me to speak their language with them so bad; they want to subvert our relationship, or at least equalize it so I am also a student learning a foreign language. They have no idea how much I’d love to, how I hate the rule preventing me from speaking Spanish with them, but our limited understanding of each other is still enough to make the utter exhaustion of my working days worth it. I guess there’s another reason to speed-walk.

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Our waiter, faltering in his English, gave me a look of relief when I spoke to him in Spanish and he started excitedly telling us the story of how he came to Valencia from his small town in the south of France. From there, the three of us discussed how long we’d been in the city, how much we liked it, and how affable its residents were–– an observation affirmed by the conversation we were all having. 

It was a Saturday night and there was nonstop movement from the people hustling past our table, which was conveniently placed on a busy street corner. Fragmented bursts of conversation made their way to my ears, a breeze heavy with the promise of stormy weather brushed my bare shoulders, and the taste of Aperol Spritz lingered on my tongue. But these details faded into an unrelated, hazy insignificance as my focus was helplessly held captive by my date’s fingers as they grazed my knee, my back, my arm.  

When we left the restaurant an hour later, we walked hand-in-hand, just as we’d done earlier that day when we were smoking in the park. Just as we’d done when we roamed the city streets one night after a yoga class. Just as I hoped we would do for a bit longer. 

The lightning came first, opening the skies for the torrent of rain that prompted my date to grip my hand tighter and pull me into the shelter of a bank’s doorway. He held me, we kissed, we waited out the rain a bit longer, and once it subsided we followed the sleek, shiny cobblestones all the way to my building. Eventually we made it to the warmth of my room, where he sat on the edge of my bed and took off his shoes.

1. About 30 or 40 years ago (?) the river Turía flowed through the city but, after multiple floods, they redirected the river and turned its former banks into a really long park made up made up of multiple different gardens. I love it and always refer to it as the ‘jardín,’ but I’m constantly corrected by my Valencian friends because the park is still known as ‘el río.’